


Liminality

by grayglube



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Mental Disintegration, Mind Sex, Other, Post Straitjacket
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 20:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8224159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/grayglube
Summary: Underneath the sinuous coil of his name curling all along his body there’s another voice.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was hard to tag, I needed to write dirtybadwrong richie/kate/amaru got tipsy and wrote this, that's one way to do it.

He shakes in his green hospital scrub ware. It’s too slight for Seth to notice but it’s stirred up from the root end of each nerve and Richie shakes.

 

He holds his hands in tighter fists as his brother creeps over the speed limit and shifts into fifth gear when merging onto the highway. There are no other cars and the lanes stretch out for long black miles of predawn asphalt.

 

Seth crosses two lanes and the odometer swings past eighty like a needle keeping time on a piano or metal spheres clacking into each other, he can read his brother like a dime store paperback.

 

Seth is still spinning from his loss of control, his realization of how dangerous the world is when one is just a human bag of flesh. Richie doesn’t want to tell him how much more dangerous it can get.

 

* * *

 

 

Amaru is waiting for him to leave the room where they’ve all gathered to ‘debrief’.

 

Freddie wants to stake him, Burt has relegated himself to scowling.

 

Seth is anxious, his body far beyond the limits of normal stress coinciding with function, Richie knows his brother needs to sleep.

 

Tanner barely look concerned.

 

Scott is the only person left who seems ready to fight.

 

Family is important, Richie can understand that.

 

* * *

 

 

She’s naked on his bed, not like a pin-up with strategic sheet edges pulled up or like the girl he lost his virginity to when he was nineteen with her shaved smoothed mound and oval tipped uneven French manicure.

 

She’s in the middle of his bed, waiting, ankles crossed and knees pointing out, palms up and neck arched back like she can hear something speaking from behind the walls.

 

“You did so well, Richard.” She whispers her praise but he feels it bite into him like teeth.

 

His dick is so hard it hurts and he’s leaked a circle onto the front of the green weave of his scrub pants, he presses close against the mattress and whines like an animal.

 

She isn’t real.

 

But, she sits at his desk, spinning idly in his chair with a heeled boot pushing her in a slow rotation. Her hair is red like viscera but her smile is sweet, pure and good like sunshine and warmth. The queen of Xibalba smiles like a girl whose life he ruined.

 

The chair stops spinning and her gaze is hot scrutiny, he’s pulled himself from his pants, hard and leaking and too fed on lust to think of anything but a woman’s heat.

 

The thing in the room with him isn’t a woman, it isn’t even a girl.

 

It isn’t even _real_ he hisses to himself.

 

It’s not like his dick knows the difference.

 

The queen of hell runs her open palms over the leather clad thighs, parted and perfect, of a body that belongs to someone he thought too holy for such sacrilege. Her jacket is gone, unzipped and on the floor like shed snake skin, and her hair is pulled back. Her pale arms and shoulders are bright in the dark of the room.

 

He crawls and she holds him by his hair when he arches up to meet her smirking mouth.

 

Time moves and she’s on him and he’s under her and the world is gone, stopped, still and ash.

 

She feels like a woman even if her face is a girl’s, even if her gaze is ancient. Her hips are hungry and she fucks him. He’s never known the meaning of the word.

 

_And you won’t know the meaning of the word until you’ve been played with by me._

 

The cadence of her voice and the hungry lift of her body over him, animal and inhumane makes him push into her from below like breaking the surface, she laughs. He spills inside of her and her stare is the universe, his whole world, she is disappointed in his performance.

 

He tries to speak but he’s lost his voice under her strangling hands, he wants to tell her he’s only a man, only a slave, less than she is. She hears him, he thinks. She must because he can breathe again.

 

She stands, her hair like blood, red and bright and vital.

 

“You can’t even please me.”

 

It’s a taunt he yearns to live up to.

 

The body she inhabits is young and slight and he’s still a man, he puts her on her knees and fucks her, deep and fast. He tastes the back of her neck, the rungs of her spine, he tastes the blood from the pulse of her open throat and he can hear something.

 

He’s inside of something that isn’t a person, that isn’t real but it still has a voice and it doesn’t speak because it cries instead.

 

Something whispers his name in the voice of someone who begged to be set free. He can almost place it but something else licks at his lower brain, the primal reptilian place, a long slow slick swipe at his brainstem and it’s got him by the balls.

 

 _“Don’t let him kill me.”_ Kate says below him while his mouth is biting islands into her shoulder and his dick defiles the last holy thing about her. He cums again while she sobs, _“I don’t want to die.”_

 

Someone is laughing, he’s spread out over the bed, sheets rucked up and stained. He’s alone but somewhere behind the walls something is listening...

 

In his head there are nails running over his thoughts, plucking and stroking and touching every awful thing he’s thought of doing; _…and I’ll be having Katie-Cakes for dessert._

 

“I don’t understand the fixation,” Amaru admits from across the room. She isn’t there, but she is real.

 

Hands that belong to a girl whose family is dead or made of monsters touch the body it owns, careful hands and slow fingers creep over the bulge of each breast and then grasp over the clothes at the space between its legs.

 

“This body is so fragile it wouldn’t survive under you, not really.”

 

He’s thought about it. He wakes up at dusk straining against the sheets because of it and the queen of hell deals in sins, she knows better than he does about what’s lurking on the edges of his half broken id and ego.

 

Clarity seeps into him. He tries to put something like Seth’s practiced finesse and salesmanship into his careful speech. “Let her go. You don’t need a weak body like that.”

 

Amaru laughs, “what do I _need_ , Richie. Tell me.” Her voice is a purr, it’s opioid smooth and electric ease all over his body, to each fingernail bed and the root of his cock. He shivers again and gathers his better sense.

 

“She’s just a human, my body is stronger. Take it instead.”

 

There’s a long moment of ponderous silence and then the slow seep of a queen’s smile.

 

“But this body can _die_. I haven’t done that in so long. Fuck me again and this time don’t stop.”

 

Her tone edges up into some hysterical chord of a woman about to shatter because of just how good the thing inside of her feels. It is days before he stops hearing it.

 

Underneath the sinuous coil of his name curling all along his body there’s another voice.

 

Sometimes it whispers words he’s heard before but mostly there’s the solitary syllabic thrum, one word, spoken and sobbed all along the edges of sanity he comes back to after days of being strung out from forces beyond his being.

 

It’s not a command to _stop_ or a litany of _no_ in between every enthusiastic thrust and touch from something that isn’t real, there’s gentleness, something imploring, someone whispering ‘ _help’_.

 

His skin crawls, he tries to remember the way it felt when he was burning. It doesn’t help. This is worse.

 

Amaru isn’t real but there’s a dead girl in his bed that no one else can see, he's the reason she's there. 


End file.
